“That's one of the ironies of being
in space,” Noel Welwyn Gough said.
"What is that sir?” the taxi driver
asked, his lively dark eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror.
“Well, the astronaut in the space
capsule or space station doesn't have much room, and yet, looking out
of the window . . . boundless space.”
“Very much ironic, yes,” and he
chuckled. Noel braced himself in the back
seat of the small cab, while the driver took the corner with one hand on
the wheel and the other gesticulating to the space beyond the window,
“boundless space. Yes, quite humorous.”
North American cabs, a complex
diversity of models, sizes, shapes and colours, were forever a
challenge to Noel, conditioned as he was, to the singularly iconic
London cabs with their spacious interiors and their ease of entry and
exit. Having to lean down and slide in through the narrow angled
opening of taxis in North America seemed like a stretching exercise
for a contortionist. How did the elderly manage he wondered? Although
he was 72, he didn't think of himself as elderly. Such a demographic
was still represented somewhat by his long deceased parents. Somehow,
his parents were forever old. He imagined his elderly Mother trying
to get in and out of one of these vehicles, then added snow into the
bargain, and shook his head, inwardly, ever sensitive to taxi
drivers and their sensitivity to admonishments as to their driving
habits. Montreal, he was told by his daughter, was famous for the
manoeuvres of its taxi drivers. If you were in a desperate chase of a
vehicle ahead, like some private eye in a movie of the 1950s, 'follow
that car cabbie!' Montreal was your kind of place. Montreal, where
the pedestrians had a breadth of interpretation when it came to red
lights, and jay walking was as common as pigeons on the sidewalk. A
city to keep you on your toes and on the edge of your seat, he
thought.
The taxi drove up the curving street,
the large older homes and enormous looming trees on the slope of the
mountain seeming to hover in the darkening thick atmosphere.
Approaching the juncture, Noel instructed the driver to keep to his
right and make his way around the loop to the far side. As they
passed the fork in the road, Noel realized the police cars were no
longer in evidence. When he had visited his friends Edward and
Lavinia in the early 1980s, two police cars were forever stationed on
the street, one facing up, and the other facing down on the opposite
side of the fork. Thomson and Thompson Edward had called them
with affection. Ever since the 1970 abduction of the British Trade
Commissioner, the street had been supplied with these supernumerary
security eyes. The locals must have both loathed and appreciated
them. Loathed for the reminder of the incident and for the unpleasant
constant sight of security, and appreciative for the sense of
protection they provided for their homes. He must remember to avoid
mentioning them. The city has moved on. Without them, however, Noel
felt he was passing between an unseen Scylla and Charybdis.
He tipped the
cabbie generously and told him to drive safely. He watched as the
taxi disappeared down the street, making its passage towards the
perils and possibilities of the unknown in the vibrant shrouded city
below. A beautiful city, now austere, grey, and humming with its
covert movements in the mist. A wealth of experiences lay before a
young man like that he thought with a touch of envy. A new generation
and its own discoveries.
Pressing
the doorbell, he heard the muted Gothic sound within, a sound which
reminded him of his bell-ringing days in Bala and beyond. Out of the
corner of his vision he glimpsed a rather forlorn looking cat scurry
amidst the shrubbery. Then he heard the clipping footsteps of a dog
approaching the other side of the door. It couldn't be George II.
That would be a miracle. The door opened wide with theatrical aplomb,
“Welcome, welcome, welcome! And you brought English weather with
you,” Edward said greeting Noel with open arms as George III
sniffed and gazed upwardly with circumspection.
“Welsh
weather, my dear Edward, Welsh weather, a marriage of heaven and
earth” Noel laughingly replied shaking Edward's hand with a gentle
strength and great warm feeling.
“Come
in, come in. And what is this?” Edward asked receiving a package
from Noel.
“Oh,
nothing, nothing at all. A bottle of Port to remember the good days.
You're looking very
well. You haven't changed a bit. When was the last time we met? Was
it in London, no it was in Florence, in . . 1998.”
“Yes, that's
right, Florence,” Edward said. Then after a pause, “Fourteen
years. Well, they've been good to you as well. You're looking
healthy, hale and hearty, or is it the other way around?”
“Well,
there is more than a touch of winter in this old beard.”
“Dapper
as always I see.”
“I
have reached the age Edward when a bow-tie is almost expected. I have
tried to resist the cravat however. One has to draw the line
somewhere,” he added with a wink. “I remember as a child of seven
and eight, a bow tie was de rigueur.
Perhaps the Bard got it wrong after all. It should be the three
ages of man: bow tie, straight tie, and bow tie.”
“And
what would the ages of woman be?”
“I'm
quite sure Miriam could tell me. Probably one endless age of looking
after men.”
“How
is your dear wife?”
“She
is well and she sends you all her love.”
They
made their way into the living room, George III sniffing at the cuffs
of Noel's trousers.
“And which George
is this?”
“George the
third.”
He turned, and
bending low, introduced himself to the dog formally and proffered his
hand. George promptly took advantage of this offer and sniffed and
licked the clean and slightly chapped fingers. “Perhaps the reason
for your youthful looks is all the Georges you've had,” he said
looking into the lovely liquid eyes of the dog and petting his soft
yet stiff curly hair. “Or is there a painting in the attic we
should know about?”
“It might be a
bit early in the day for a glass of Port, but this is a special
occasion,” Edward said handing a glass to Noel.
“I think we
should raise a glass to Lavinia and Miriam.”
“To Lavinia and
Miriam,” Edward said. They raised their glasses and gently clinked
them together.
“Please have a
seat Noel, have a seat. Mary is just having a wee nap and we have
some time to chat. My niece Amelia and her husband Duncan, the
bookseller, will be joining us for dinner.”
“Excellent. Five
for dins. A toast to the wonderful Mary.”
“Yes indeed,”
and they raised their glasses. “So, how is your daughter?”
“Elizabeth is
very busy, very busy, and prospering. She has a condo. An investment.
Whether she sells now or rents it while she is in Paris, she will
make a profit. It's a rum business.” Noel's occasional
rolled 'R' was highly emphasized on this word. “A parking space
cost $35,000!” he said taking a sip of Port.
“Ah, my annual
tax bill.”
Noel raised his
eyebrows at this revelation. “An expensive bit of air to be sure.
But you made an excellent investment here considering what you must
have paid for it in the mid 1960s. A toast to you Edward.” Another
glass raised. A brief silence overtook them while George looked on, at ease.
“Why Paris?”
“Paris? Oh yes, a
transfer. Up the ladder. She will be a hop away from Miriam and I, so
that will be very nice. I believe there is a man involved as well. A
Parisian named Philip. Perhaps Miriam and I will have a new
son-in-law.”
Edward raised his
glass, “To Elizabeth and Philip.”
Both recognizing
the unintended Royal reference, they laughed.
© ralph patrick mackay
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